


There and Back Again: A Second Chance

by griffindork93



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffindork93/pseuds/griffindork93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo woke, he knew something was wrong, because he was without a stitch of clothing. He was a respectable Hobbit. A Baggins of Bag End. He did not sleep naked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to be infatuated with time travel stories. Not that I think I’m alone in that regard. I think I’ll put the disclaimer for the entire story here, and not repeat myself several times. The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, and any other books I might draw upon, are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. The movies belong to Peter Jackson. I’ll be taken bits and pieces of both and making changes, of course.
> 
> This is just a prologue. The rest of the chapters will be longer.

Bilbo Baggins allowed his head to fall to rest on the shoulder of his nephew. The horse pulled cart plodded along, and every bump in the road jostled weary bones and decades old aches.

It had been many a quiet years since he had left behind the rolling green hills of the Shire for the Last Homely House East of the Sea. The valley of Imladris and the city of the Elves were just as magnificent as Bilbo remembered, though he had not been there in sixty years. He happily spent his years there compiling a three volume history of the Elder Days, study the Elvish language Sindarin, and composing two poems; _All that is Gold Does not Glitter_ was for Aragorn, and the second poem was about Eärendil, Lord Elrond’s father.

Age had caught up with him quickly in Rivendell, ever since he had given up his ring. His once light brown hair lost all color, and he lost quite a bit of hair too. Of course, with old age came white hair and wrinkled and sagging skin. Bilbo was currently the longest lived Hobbit, at one hundred and thirty-one, in the history of Hobbits, so far as they knew anyway. Being the peaceful creatures they were, full of love for good food, company, and the warmth of home, they did not care much for their history, and as such could not even tell where they came from or who their creator was.

Bilbo had theories of course. He had done plenty of research in Rivendell’s library, and while he learned that Eru had the final say regarding the creation of all four races (those nasty Orcs not included), he was only directly responsible for Elves and Men. The Dwarves called the Vala Aulë their creator, though he was known by Mahal in their language.

But Bilbo could only offer an educated guess as to which of the Valar had pushed for the creation of Hobbits. He suspected the Vala Yavanna was behind the decision to make the race of Hobbits. Queen of the Earth and Giver of Fruits she was also called, but it was clear Yavanna loved growing things and the earth, both of which Hobbits enjoyed as well, seeing as how they picked the Shire to settle and grew all their own food.

Not to mention she was the wife of Aulë and Hobbits and Dwarf were of a similar stature. Although Hobbit feet were much sturdier.

But that period did not last long. Ever since he had given up his ring to Frodo, he had felt old and thin inside, so it was only a matter of time before he came to look as he felt. By the end of his stay in Rivendell, Bilbo was spending more time in bed than out of it.

“Tell me again lad . . . where are we going?”

“To the harbor, Bilbo,” was Frodo’s soft answer. “The Elves have accorded you a special honor; a place on the last ship to leave Middle Earth.”

Yes, he remembered that now. He was allowed journey to the Undying Lands because he had been a Ring-Bearer. “Frodo . . . any chance of seeing that old ring again? Hmm? The one I gave to you?”

“I’m sorry, uncle . . . I’m afraid I lost it.”

Bilbo sagged against his nephew. “Oh . . . pity.” The ring reminded him of his adventure. He had used it once, before his extravagant birthday party, to evade Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She had been so mad when Bilbo came back from his adventure alive for she couldn’t get her grubby hands on Bag End. Biblo still had to demand that she turn out her pockets. He would never understand that woman’s fascination with his silver spoons. “Should like to have held it one last time.”

Indeed, his unexpected journey to aid thirteen Dwarves in the taking back of their homeland from the dragon Smaug would be a period of his life that Bilbo would never forget. Not just because of all the excitement and what he had done; fighting Orcs, stealing from dragons, and escaping Elvish prisons. No. Bilbo would always think back on that year, fondness dulling the ever present grief, and count himself lucky for the friends he had made and the lessons that he learned.

Bilbo must have fallen asleep, for next he knew Frodo was calling his name, wakening him with a light shake to the shoulder. He was helped down from the carriage and made a beeline for Gandalf.

“Good morning, old friend. And I’ll have none of your riddles. I am much too old for them.”

The white wizard smiled amusedly down at him. “Good morning, indeed, Bilbo Baggins.”

The ancient Hobbit hugged the wizard’s legs, for he had shrunken in his old age, pleased that he would be taking this final adventure with a familiar face, and then turned to face the ship.

It was nothing like the barge Bard had sailed, yet Bilbo found himself thinking about his terrifying escape from Mirkwood in barrels of all things, with him desperately clinging to the outside of one like a drowned kitten.

Everything seemed to draw his thoughts back to his greatest adventure. He couldn’t look at Thorin’s map without tears clouding his vision. Bilbo wasn’t even sure why he hung it, considering all that one reminded him of was tragic end of Durin’s line.

Memories bombarded him. Of Thorin, impaled and bleeding on the ground, and of his nephews, both slain by the white orc.

All three of them dead or dying by the time he reached them, blood spilling forth and sinking into the rock crevices. Fíli, quieter and more serious than his brother, but he enjoyed a good laugh. The blond Dwarf was always withdrawing a hidden knife and then he and his brother would make a game of tossing it back and forth over Biblo’s head. Kíli, who was carefree and somewhat reckless, but loyal to a fault. Simply talking with him was enough to make even the staunchest of Elves smile.

But Bilbo had never seen a pair of closer siblings. They had been brimming with excitement when he first met them on his doorstep, overjoyed to be included on the quest despite their young age. The duo had worked hard to prove their worth. Both were wildly protective of each other and of their uncle, who returned the sentiments tenfold.

Thorin Oakenshield was someone that Bilbo greatly admired. The exiled king had struggled many long years for his people, organizing the seemingly impossible quest in hopes of getting their home back despite the dangers he knew awaited. Thorin was many things. He wasn’t one for words, though, so Biblo had gotten rather good at reading into his actions, facial expressions, and body language.Stubborn and a little vain at times, but the dwarf was loyal to a fault. Brave, intelligent, and proud. They were all words that could be used to describe the King Under the Mountain

Only, Thorin had never gotten that chance. He, like his sister-sons, had been slain in battle. Bilbo believed they had taken to calling it the Battle of Five Armies. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield, small in numbers though they were, most certainly were their own army.

Thorin’s deep baritone voice rumbled in the recesses of his mind.  "Farewell, Master Burglar; go back to your books, your armchair, your fireplace. Plant your trees, watch them grow. If more of us valued home above gold, it would be a merrier world."

His parting words were the driving decision behind Bilbo returning home to his home in Bag End and continuing on with life, eventually adopting young Frodo as his heir when his parents drowned.

Bilbo did not know what happened to Erebor after that. He had stayed long enough for the funeral and then set off for the Shire with his two chests of gold and silver. He imagined, though, the title of king had gone to Thorin’s cousin Dáin.

It truly was unfair that the dwarves struggled all those years after Erebor fell to dragon fire only to die mere days after reclaiming without the opportunity to rebuild it and see the kingdom in all its splendor or time to ever call it home. It was a cruel fate that had befallen Durin’s line. And most of the company really. He heard from Gimli, who Glóin must have been very proud of despite his friendship with Legolas, Balin, Ori, and Óin had perished in Moria.

Bilbo was brought out of his musings by Elrond’s arm around his shoulders, directing him up the plank to board the ship. “I think . . . I’m quite ready for another adventure.”

This time he knew what awaited him. Bilbo only wished that his first adventure had turned out better. He would have gladly given his life to save Thorin, Fíli, or Kíli. Or any of his Dwarves, really. He had been prepared to do so the first time he had confronted Azog. If only he hadn’t been knocked out during the battle. Or maybe he had had found them sooner.

_“Hobbits are such interesting creatures. Perhaps the most surprising of all my children. Yavanna did well with you.”_

Bilbo tensed when an unknown voice spoke directly in his mind, absentmindedly taking note that it was indeed Yavanna who was his race’s creator. His fingers jumped to his waist, instinctively searching for Sting’s hilt, only to come up empty since he had gifted the blade to Frodo.

_“Tell me, Bilbo Baggins,”_ the voice continued, and Bilbo felt a chill race down his spine. He knew the Lady Galadriel was capable of speaking in one’s mind, but the voice he was hearing was male. Every cadence spoken rang deep in his bones with age and power.  The strength and authority behind them was enough to clear the fog of old age from his mind. _“would you truly die to save the life of another?”_

There was no hesitation from him. Bilbo was just a Hobbit. A race of beings so unimportant that most forgot they existed. In fact, Hobbits had been around for generations before they were discovered by Men. And after they had relocated over the Misty Mountains to the land they called the Shire, well, they never left. Hobbits were all but forgotten by the world of the Big Folk.

If not for Gandalf strolling in and convincing a Took and the occasional Brandybuck to accompany him beyond the Shire, Bilbo wagered that Hobbits would have been forgotten. It was no wonder he had been officially named a Disturber of the Peace.

They lead peaceful, simple lives, comfortable in their cozy smials, partaking in seven meals a day and relaxing to a pipe of Old Toby, uninvolved with and removed from the troubles of the rest of the world.

The Dwarves were different. They were stronger, braver. His companions had been warriors. Heroes. He didn’t even learn how to fight on that journey, so it was a miracle that he had survived that battle for Erebor. Not once had any member of Thorin’s Company considered turning back and running home, which was all Bilbo could think about until Goblin Town and the skirmish with Azog the Defiler afterwards.

How could he even begin to compare? His Dwarves were legends. They should have been celebrated for their accomplishment, not toasted to in remembrance.

_“Then you shall have your chance, Bilbo Baggins.”_

Darkness took him, and Bilbo Baggins knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s not canon, but Bilbo’s parents, at least one of them, dying in the Fell Winter seems to be a common plot device on Fanfiction, and, well, it works. I’m choosing to push the dates back so that they line up with Bungo’s death. The long version of the dwarves’ song was taken from the book.

Bilbo wrapped the hand sewn quilt made by his grandmother tighter around his frame in an effort to ward off the chilly morning air, and snuggled deeper into his bed.

Or tried to anyway. His hand met nothing but air.

He sat up, bleary eyed, peering over the edge of his bed, thinking that he knocked the blanket off in his sleep. However, the item in question was nowhere to be found.

Bilbo puffed with frustration, now fully alert. He liked a little mischief as much as the next Hobbit, and had indulged in more than his share as a child, but if some fauntling had made off with his quilt as a joke he was going to box some ears. It was one thing to steal mushrooms from Farmer Maggot’s field, and another thing entirely to break into one’s Hobbit-hole and snatch blankets from sleeping Hobbits.

His righteous anger dissipated rather quickly when he realized he was naked and his missing blanket was in actuality underneath him.

Of all the ways it was possible to wake in the morning (to the smell of breakfast, falling out of bed, at the time of his choosing), naked was one Bilbo had never imagined. He was a respectable Hobbit. A Baggins of Bag End. He did not sleep naked.  And he knew he had been wearing proper sleeping attire when he retired last night. Bilbo ignored that fact that he had slept atop his fully made bed, which he never did even on the warmest of summer nights.

He must have gotten into some of Gaffer’s Home Brew, he reasoned as he rifled through the drawers in search of clothing. That was the only reasonable explanation. Gaffer Gamgee’s beer was strong enough to knock an Elf off his feet, Bilbo wagered.

What he needed was a good smoke. A little bit of Old Toby would soothe his nerves.

Decision made, Bilbo grabbed the hand carved pipe his mother had given his father from its box atop his dresser, reflexively glancing into the small mirror mounted above it. And, staring into the image of his much younger self, full head of curly brown hair, a face smooth and free of wrinkles and eyes that looked young but felt old, Bilbo was stunned.

“Wha—I am young again?” He ran his fingers, smooth and straight, not curled with age, brittle and aching, across his jaw.

Bilbo would have thought himself truly the Mad Baggins the rest of the Shire named him if not for echoing voice he remembered.

A conversation with an unknown person, asking him if he would indeed give up his life for one of the Company. Bilbo didn’t remember answering, not in any spoken sense, but his feelings on the matter must have been answer enough for the being.

 _“Then you shall have your chance, Bilbo Baggins,”_ the voice had declared, and he had woken up in the body of his much younger self.

“A second chance,” the Hobbit murmured lightly to himself, eyes widened in a mix of disbelief and awe and fixated on his likeness in the reflexive glass. Then he did what any normal Hobbit would do in his situation.

He fainted.

* * *

The second time Bilbo awoke he felt much better, inordinately pleased by the fact he still wore clothes. Don’t get him wrong. The Hobbit was grateful for the unexpected opportunity. More than grateful. Receiving a second chance like this was unheard of. Bilbo had never come across any mentioning of situations like his in Elrond’s library. Certainly, if this wasn’t the first time someone had been sent back, the Elves would know about it?

He was beholden to whatever being had sent him back, because now he could save Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli, which in turn might prevent the deaths of Balin, Óin, and Ori since they probably wouldn’t be the ones to reclaim Moria. But why had he been as naked as the day he was born?

But he had more pressing matters to deal with. First, he needed to locate a calendar. Judging by his appearance, Bilbo would place his age at late forties, early fifties. He needed to know how much time he had before the Dwarrows invaded his home.

“The date. The date. What day is it?” he flitted about the halls. “Confound it all! Where did I put that thing?” He gleefully ripped it off the wall when he found it.

It was Rethe of 1341 by Shire Reckoning. Gandalf and the rest of the Company would appear on his doorstep sometime this month. That was better, but the exact day was still unknown. Perhaps he would check the mail. There must be a letter or invitation that was dated.

Ah, that reminded him. Gandalf had approached him one day when he went out to collect his mail, after his morning pipe of course. So, that’s what Bilbo would do. He would enjoy the comforts of his pipe whilst sitting on the bench and wait for the wizard to arrive.

There wasn’t much else he could do. Bilbo had learned from a long friendship with the old man that wizards arrived precisely when they meant to, and it was always when he least expected it. For all his knowledge of Hobbits, which Gandalf claimed would never be complete because they were forever surprising him, he did not understand that Hobbits simple did not like unexpected.

And wait was precisely what Bilbo Baggins did. For three days, he’d wake with the first rays of the sun, eat breakfast, but skip both second breakfast and elevensies as he waited for the Grey Wizard. If, as it had been for the past three days, Gandalf did not show by luncheon, Bilbo would return to his kitchen, where he was preparing a veritable feast for when the Dwarves did come.

Certain dishes, like the nine different flavored pies, his famous pork stew, and nutty bread could be baked ahead of time, and when Gandalf finally did come, Bilbo would be able to set about cooking all the meats, which the Dwarves loved most. He had made several shopping trips for this occasion, buying enough food to fill his pantry twice over.

 Bilbo was a fairly rich Hobbit, his parent’s wealth had been left to him, as their only child, when they passed, and he could think of no better way to spend it than on the guests he was expecting. Not only was it a matter of pride as a Hobbit, and quite frankly that was probably the most annoying part of this journey, having to overcome Gandalf’s rudeness of inviting thirteen Dwarves and telling them Bilbo would have food for them without a word to Bilbo himself, but this time he wanted to make sure he didn’t have to scrounge the bottom of his pantry to feed Thorin when the leader of the company arrived.

It was the fourth day that found Bilbo staring at a familiar old men dressed in grey robes, complete with a pointed hat and staff.

“Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully, puffing on his pipe and exhaling a ring of smoke.

“What do you mean?” Gandalf grumbled pointedly. Not giving the Hobbit a chance to speak he continued, “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

Bilbo chuckled. “The first one, my good sir. I only meant a simple, polite greeting. Would you rather I demand you get lost before you’ve said your piece?” Gandalf looked upon him with muted surprise. “Now, can I help you?”

One of Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows arched as he stared down at the Hobbit with bemusement. “That remains to be seen,” he said cryptically. He looked Bilbo up and down, as if he was inspecting for something, then said, “I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

That was the line the time traveler had been waiting for. He was going on this adventure, no questions about that, but by no means was he going to make it easy for the wizard. In his mind, Gandalf certainly deserved a little bit of heckling for the chaos he wanted to spring on Bilbo unannounced. Honestly, the nerve of the Istar. He was an entirely respectable Hobbit, and that meant he did not go on adventures with strangers that were not polite enough to introduce themselves and was upset when guest dropped by well after polite visiting hours with no warning and ate him out of house and home. Why, they had hardly remembered to save any for their king.

How could Bilbo be a proper host and provided a Hobbity welcome when he was caught blindsided by meddling wizards?

“An adventure?” he repeated slowly, taking the time to wrap his tongue around each syllable. “Well, I can’t imagine you’re having much luck with that,” Bilbo continued, tone carefully light and innocent.

“Indeed?” rumbled Gandalf. “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.”

Brown curls dipped as he nodded. “Oh yes. I should think—so in these parts! We are plain, quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner!” Bilbo made sure to inject proper horror and distaste into voice. That was a rather uncomfortable part of the journey. He had missed out on four meals a day since he ran out of his house. It was no wonder that the rest of Hobbiton hadn’t recognized him when he returned.

“Is that so?”

“I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures! You might perhaps try over the Hill or across the Water.”

Gandalf studied the Hobbit, as if trying to discern whether or not Bilbo spoke the truth. Aside from himself and young Took fauntlings, there wasn’t a Hobbit in the Shire that would agree to accompany the wizard on one of his adventures. Even ignoring that most of Gandalf’s adventures were truly harmless, usually involving a Hobbit joining him on a trip to Bree or Rivendell, most simply didn’t care for them. There was no needed to step outside the Shire because they had everything they needed; good food, good company. Peaceful, quite, simple lives.

Bilbo offered the wizard a final ‘good morning,’ hurriedly grabbed his mail, and disappeared behind the round green door of his smial. He had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing when Gandalf acted affronted and said something about being good morning’ed as if he was selling buttons.

What was he expecting? That Bilbo would automatically jump at the chance to run off on an adventure. Bilbo had changed from the adventurous and carefree fauntling that Gandalf once knew. The Fell Winter had stolen that from him.

It was a harsh winter, one the Shire had not seen in an age. The lack of food, and attacks by wolves and Orcs, had taken many hobbits, his father included. Bungo had tried to take on a wolf with naught but a fileting knife. In a way, the Fell Winter claimed his mother too, for Belladonna Took was but a shadow of herself after her husband’s death. She clung to life for Bilbo, but she was frail and weak. Heartbroken, she joined Bungo after eight years. Needless to say, adventures no longer sounded glorious and Bilbo had lost all interest in going on one.

Bilbo shook his head. He had other matters to focus on. The food he was preparing for tonight still needed a lot of work. Right, he thought, rolling up his sleeves. The Dwarves liked pork, so he needed to make sure there would be plenty of that, and sausage too. He needed extra cheese for Bombur and a dish that contained vegetables. They may not care for the leafy rabbit food, as they called it, but Bilbo was going to trick the Dwarves into eating it in the form of stuffed mushrooms.

* * *

When the knock sounded on the door Bilbo froze in his pacing, shooting a fearful glance down the hall. Now that the time had come, he wasn’t entirely certain he was prepared for it.

He had only a few days to come to terms with the fact that he had been sent to the past and given a second chance. Within a half hour his house would be teeming with Dwarves, three of which Bilbo had personally seen die.

How did he think he could handle this?

The knocking sounded again, more insistently this time, and Bilbo reacted before he could second guess himself and start picking apart giant holes in his plan. He would have time to think later. Right now, he had a troupe of travel weary Dwarves who were expecting to be feed.

Bilbo knew who to expect when he open the door to Bag End, therefore he was sufficiently surprised to see head of white hair that he did.

“Balin, son of Fundin, at your service,” he introduced kindly.

The Hobbit took a shaky step to the side, permitting the old Dwarf to enter. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” he managed to return.

“Come lad,” said Balin, “you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. We Dwarves aren’t quite so terrifying, I promise you.”

“I wasn’t expecting you!” the Hobbit exclaimed before he could stop himself.

Balin’s impressive eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean by that, laddie? Who were you expecting then?”

“No one! I mean . . . that is to say,” Bilbo stammered wildly, grasping for an excuse to give the king’s advisor and cursing whatever Valar made Balin appear on his stoop first. “Gandalf,” he managed. “The wizard said he was coming for dinner. He didn’t mention he was bringing company.”

Balin’s frown deepened. “You mean to tell me Gandalf did not forewarn you?” The Dwarf was rather cross. “He said you agreed to accompany us on this quest. I’ll be having words with him. This is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

“Don’t bother on my account, Master Balin,” Bilbo hurried to placate the normally genial Dwarf. Balin was the composed one. Calm and unruffled, until Thorin fell to the gold sickness. “We Hobbits pride ourselves on our hospitality, so I’m quite prepared for guest, even unexpected ones. How many more of you are there?”

He hadn’t been the first time around, but there was no need for Balin to know that. It certainly wouldn’t hurt in the long run for the Dwarves to have, if not a higher opinion of their burglar, at least not a bad one. What a sight he must have presented, apologizing for not knowing the Dwarves that invaded his smial and running about the halls frantically demanding the Dwarves return various chairs to their proper places because they were not for sitting on.

“Twelve more. And the wizard,” he added darkly, and Bilbo cringed. Yavanna, he seemed to be causing more trouble for Gandalf than he had planned. After a moment’s thought, he shrugged. It wasn’t like the meddlesome wizard didn’t deserve it.

“This way,” Bilbo bustled the old Dwarf inside, directing him to take a seat in the drawing room to await the rest of his companions and setting a cup of chamomile tea at his elbow. “Now, if you excuse me, I best whip up something for dinner.”

“Would you like help, lad?” Balin queried, half rising from his chair. He imagined that Bilbo would be grateful for an extra pair of hands since his fellow dwarves couldn’t be far behind him.

Bilbo pinned him with horrified eyes. “Help?” he squeaked. “No! A guest isn’t expected to work. You just relax. I’m sure you’ve had a long journey. I’ll be just fine without your help, and when there are more of you, you can assist in moving the dining table into the hall so there’s room enough for everyone.”

With that said, he vanished back into his kitchen, leaving the Dwarf to his thoughts, which were unfriendly with regards to wizards who hid more than they shared and marveling at the generosity of the Hobbit that invited him in despite not being told they were coming.

Bilbo fairly danced about his kitchen; mind only half on the food he was preparing. Balin’s appearance had deeply shocked him, for his brother was supposed to be the first to arrive. Now he was flying blind and wouldn’t be able to steel himself for when Fíli and Kíli showed up. If he got choked up at the sight of them they would think him soft indeed.

“Oh, bother and confusticate,” he grumbled under his breath. It was a retort he usually pointed at the Dwarves, mostly Thorin when the king-in-exile was being particularly stubborn. “Get a hold of yourself, Bilbo Baggins. Do you or do you not have Took blood in your veins?”

He would deal with his memories when the time came. Right now, he only needed to ensure the Dwarves were welcomed and fed while they awaited their leader, and maybe see if he couldn’t trick them into singing ‘What Bilbo Baggins Hates,’ because his despair would be easier to handle if he could see them happy and lively and having fun.

The doorbell rang, but Bilbo was preoccupied with searing the mutton, crusted with chopped onions, oregano, thyme, and garlic powder. It sounded again, more insistently, at which point Balin appeared in the open doorway of the kitchen.

“Shall I answer that for you?” he offered. “I’d hate to pull you away from your preparations. It smells heavenly in here.”

“Absolutely not. You go straight back to the drawing room,” Bilbo ordered, waving his tongs about. “I need no assistance yet, and when I do I shall let you know.”

Balin acquiesced and the Hobbit rushed to answer the door. He wrenched it open, surprising Dwalin on the other side, who had raised his fist to pound on the wood.

“Dwalin, at your service,” he said gruffly. Tall, built and menacing, the other son of Fundin had intimidated Bilbo on first appearance. The giant ax over his shoulders only served to add fire to the frightening look. Bilbo wondered if Gandalf had purposely sent Dwalin first to scare him into submission and browbeat the Hobbit into letting thirteen Dwarves into his house, because it had certainly worked once.

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” he replied, which Dwalin acknowledge with a sharp nod, leading the Dwarf down the hall to his brother. The two were ensconced in low conversation before he was out of the room.

He didn’t have time to return to the kitchen, so Bilbo sent a quick prayer to Yavanna that nothing burned while he was unable to watch over it. It was an uneven beating, almost as if two fists were knocking together, and Bilbo knew exactly who he would find on the other side.

“Fíli,” his throat tightened painfully at the familiar voice.

“and Kíli,” the dark haired Dwarf picked up.

“At your service!” they announced in tandem, accompanied by short bows and wide grins.

Bilbo’s eyes watered at the sight of the two of them. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your families,” he quietly vowed. “Come in. There are two others waiting in the drawing room. First door on your right. Don’t wipe your feet on my furniture.”

The last line was, of course, directed at Kíli, and then, like the cowardly, homesick Hobbit he had been before their encounter with the goblins, Bilbo fled into the safety of his kitchen, not noticing the perplexed looks shared between the brothers.

Yavanna, was this going to be a long night, he thought. He had underestimated just how much pain it would cause him to see those two alive. Of all the Dwarves Bilbo had traveled with, he was closest to Bofur, Ori, and the two heirs of Durin, for they were the ones to reach out and see that he was made welcome amongst their group.

He wasn’t certain he could maintain his composure for another couple of hours. Especially not since he had yet to re-meet Thorin.

It was nearly a half hour before the second to last group of Dwarves arrived. With the help of the four already present, the dining table was maneuvered from its regular place and into the hall, and chairs were dragged from various rooms until fifteen sat around it. Bilbo was in the process of bringing out the food, he didn’t trust Fíli and Kíli to put off eating until the rest of the company arrived, when the doorbell chimed.

Bilbo’s first thought, upon finding himself underneath a pile of Dwarves, which unfortunately included Bombur, was not that he could not breathe, though he was wheezing when Dori and Bofur pulled him to his feet. Instead it was that the Dwarves smelled of earth and stone, scents he had come to associate with home.

The Hobbit pointedly ignored Gandalf, who was looking rather amused, in favor of seeing the rest of the Dwarves settled in. Twelve pairs of eyes stared amazed at the spread of food before them.

When no one moved to eat, Bilbo grew worried. “Is there not enough food? I have another pantry that I was saving for breakfast tomorrow and there’s still dessert to be had.”

“Nay, laddie,” Glóin said thickly. “It’s quite the spread you’ve prepared. When the wizard said there’d be food . . . didn’t think it be this much.”

Biblo flushed while Dwalin and Balin surreptitiously glared daggers at Gandalf, whom was now smiling in a pleased manner. Balin had informed his brother of what the Hobbit had admitted to him, and both knew that the Grey Wizard didn’t have the decency to ask Bilbo if he would be willing to cook for them. Knowing that, Balin thought it nothing short of a miracle that there was a long table laden with food available.

Bilbo perched himself at the end of the table, watching with wet eyes and a squeezed heart as the Dwarves dove in, enjoying the first honest meal they had had in a long time. Seeing them, throwing food about and spilling more ale into their beards than their stomachs, talking excitedly and looking forward to their quest emboldened his resolve.

He would do everything he could to see that all thirteen of his Dwarves survived.

“So, what do you think of our current company?” Gandalf mused, and Bilbo jerked to peer up at him. The wizard didn’t look anything other than curious, but Bilbo knew there was more to his question than the simple desire for his opinion. Gandalf never did anything without reason and only spoke when he needed to.

Though Gandalf’s cryptic words were more often annoying than they were relief.

“They’re a merry bunch,” Bilbo said, echoing the words Gandalf had told him when the Hobbit had demanded to know why he brought twelve Dwarves to dinner with him.

There was Bombur, who was managing to eat quickly and yet still savor every bite, with a mountain of food on his plate. Dori, strict where Bilbo had been concerned, was fussing over his youngest brother. Nori held on of his silver spoons up, turning it slightly and examining it. Bilbo supposed he wouldn’t be too angry if the thief made off with his silverware because it prevented it from falling into the hands of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Bifur he found staring at himself and Gandalf knowingly. It served to remind Bilbo that just because he had an ax lodged in his skull and couldn’t speak Westron it didn’t mean he was unobservant. He imagined the toymaker saw more than the rest of the company. Blond Fíli was casually flipping one of his many knives whilst simultaneously holding a conversation with Balin. Kíli was begging Bofur to pull out his clarinet (Bilbo took the opportunity to warn them to be careful with his silverware, which incited the recognizable tune of ‘What Bilbo Baggins Hates’). Only Dwalin sat quietly, eating methodically, eyes straying to the door in anticipation of Thorin’s arrival, no doubt.

It was familiar. Nostalgic. The Dwarves had been just as full of life on the road, if not more so, and it filled Bilbo’s heart with warmth to see them again. While the dark times stood out in his mind, important because he wished to see them changed, the journey to Erebor was not eclipsed by shadows. There had been stories shared around the fire, about the glory of the Lonely Mountain before Smaug’s destruction, which several members of the company had never seen.

It was too bad they would never accept an invitation to see his smial, where Bilbo could guarantee they were safe and comfortable, as their home. His Hobbit-hole, while cozy, could not compare.

“Indeed,” Gandalf agreed lowly.

Then came the moment Bilbo had been equal parts waiting for and dreading. One last pounding on his front door that saw the other dwarves subdued.

Bilbo, feeling as though his heart had found a new home in his throat, shakily moved behind a line of stilled Dwarves to reach the front door of Bag End, trailed by Gandalf. Heart constricted and threatening to burst, Bilbo swung open the door, illuminating the imposing and majestic figure that Thorin cut.

His fur cloaked back was to the door, but he turned to face it once it was fully open.

Bilbo vaguely recognized that Thorin was scrutinizing him as he stood there dumbly, but all he could see was the king’s final moments. Red blood seeping from a stab wound to the chest just when he thought triumph over his arch nemesis was his, body quickly becoming as cold as the ice beneath him. Dark hair sticky with fresh blood. Unseeing eyes as he said his farewell to Bilbo.

His strength left him, and it was only his white knuckled grip on the door that kept him standing. He was only a Hobbit. How was he supposed to see any of the Dwarves through to the end of this journey? How did he expect to spare them their fates at the hands of Bolg and Azog? Bilbo knew he was no match for either Orc.

“Gandalf,” the Dwarf addressed first, “You said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way. Twice.” Thorin stepped through, pushing past Bilbo’s still frozen form, giving him a look of distaste he reserved for Elves. “I would not have found it at all, had it not been for that mark on the door.”

The cotton finally seemed to be lifted from his ears. “Mark?” he question anxiously, making a show of examining the door in question. “There’s no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!”

“There is a mark there. I put it there myself.”

“What exactly do you mean by defacing my property, Gandalf?” Bilbo quite enjoyed the shamed expression that the wizard adopted in face of his ire.

“I wanted to make it easier for the dwarves to locate your abode,” he tried, but the Hobbit was having none of it.

“I could have put a sign on the door for that. And I would have had I known to be expecting a party of Dwarves,” he rebuked. “Now set it right, please,” he added sharply.

Gandalf harrumphed, but obliged under Bilbo’s steely glare, tracing his staff back over the Dwarven rune, leaving an unblemished door when he stepped back.

Bilbo thanked him stiffly when the wizard stared at him expectantly. “This way,” he said to Thorin, who watched the mild confrontation with a stern set face, though he caught a glimmer of amusement in those blue eyes. “There’s plenty of food left for you. Whatever it is you’re here for can wait until you’re fed and rested.”

“A moment, Master Burglar.” Bilbo flinched when Thorin grasped him by the upper arm and drew him close. “Do you mean to tell me you do not know why we have come?”

He did, but he wasn’t supposed to in Gandalf’s eyes. “An adventure, I presume,” Bilbo shrugged, which served to remove Thorin’s arm from his person as well as convey his lack of concern. “That’s the only reason Gandalf comes to the Shire, to drag unsuspecting Hobbits from their Hobbit-holes and drop them in the middle of an adventure.”

A stormy silence hung between them, broken by Thorin when the Dwarf stormed into the dining room. Bilbo needed a precious minute to compose himself before following. The silence was stifling inside as well. Not one member of the company was willing to ask what had put their leading in such a towering temper.

Eyes flashing, Thorin turned his weighty glare on the wizard once his plate had been cleared away. “You told me that the fourteenth member of our company had agreed to join us. Why then, does the burglar claim not to know why we are here? Did you not speak to him?”

“He spoke with Master Baggins,” interjected Balin, “but from what I understand, only informed him that he wished for Master Baggins to join us on an adventure.”

“Abominable,” Dwalin muttered to his right.

“Quite,” Balin agreed. “But I suggest we correct that matter now, and deal with the wizard’s scheming later.”

Said wizard looked affronted at being criticized so openly.

“Tell him,” ordered Thorin.

The rest of the Dwarves, angered by Gandalf’s presumptuousness, hushed as Balin began speaking, weaving a tale of the mighty Dwarf kingdom of Erebor at its height, of the plight and suffering the Dwarves faced when forced to flee their home under a rain of dragon fire. The old Dwarf was a magnificent story teller, a fact that Bilbo already knew, but he found himself enthralled.

“What do you need a burglar for?” he asked once Balin had finished.

“There is a jewel. The Arkenstone.”

While Balin described the stone and Bilbo’s purpose in joining them, the Hobbit was cursing the stone in the peace of his own mind. It had wrought nothing but grief, and frankly, Thorin shouldn’t have needed to have it in his possession before the other Dwarven kingdoms would offer aid against Smaug. Ignoring the fact that several generations before Thrór had ruled before the stone was even found, Thorin was of the line of Durin; their king. They owed him their allegiance.

“You want me to steal from a dragon.”

Dead silence met his statement.

“Aye, laddie.”

“What do you say, my dear Bilbo?” Gandalf asked gently. “Will you join the Company of Thorin Oakenshield? Leave your father’s books and your mother’s doilies behind. There is a world beyond your Shire.”

Bilbo didn’t answer immediately, as he might have if the wizard had asked him directly early and not just hinted at it. He wanted nothing more than to protect them, but realistically knew that that, come time to wage war at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, there was no way he could keep an eye on all thirteen Dwarves that were as dear to him as Frodo.

The chances of the entire company coming out alive in the end were astronomically low. Could he open his heart again? Invite the opportunity for deep scars to be carved into it once more? Was he prepared to face the reality that he might still fail?

“Understand, Master Hobbit,” Thorin spoke, “that I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Bilbo had no reply for that, as it wasn’t his own safety he was worried about.

The Hobbit scanned the amalgamation of different Dwarves that had traveled from Ered Luin just for the purpose of recruiting him. There was a mix of looks there. Pleading from Fíli and Kíli, young and wanting to prove themselves, thinking the quest full of danger but confident that they could face it. Óin’s ear trumpet was tilted in his direction. Dwalin tried to suppress his emotions, but they were easily read in his eyes.

Thirteen Dwarves waited for his response on tenterhooks, all their hopes of reclaiming their home depending on his agreement.

Staring at them, Bilbo was reminded of the words Thorin had spoken.

_“I would take each and every one of these Dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills, for when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, honor, a willing heart. I can ask no more than that.”_

He did not need courage or strength or skill.

Gandalf had warned him that, should he survive to return to Bag End, he would come back a different Hobbit. And despite the circumstances of Bilbo’s return, he was right. The Dwarves had changed him for the better. They had opened his eyes. Taught him the value of bonds, of wanting nothing more than a place to call home.

In the end, he said yes. How could he not give everything he had, which was a fair bit more than the Dwarves had, when they were risking their very lives for a chance at reclaiming their home?

“I want to help.”

The younger Dwarves exploded into raucous cheering. Balin gained his feet, rounding the table to hand Bilbo a familiar contract. “It’s just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth,” he explained lightly, as if concerned Bilbo would change his mind once he realized exactly what he was signing up for.

Lucky for everyone involved, the Hobbit knew better than they did what lay ahead of them, so it was unhesitating that he picked up a quill and signed his name at the bottom.

Balin took the contract back, gently tucking it inside his cloak. “As an official member of our company, you will be entitled to up to a one-fourteenth share of the gold should we succeed.”

Bilbo smiled grimly, remembering all the trouble that gold had caused. “I doubt I will take that much. I wouldn’t know what to do with it all. We Hobbits care little for gold.”

With business concluded, the Dwarves drifted into the drawing room. Bilbo knew from experience that they would form a semi-circle before his fireplace, and before long, the harmonious baritones of the Dwarves soared.

“Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To seek the pale enchanted gold.

 

“The Dwarves of yore made mighty spells,

While hammers fell like ringing bells

In places deep, where dark things sleep,

In hollow halls beneath the fells.

 

“For ancient king and Elvish lord

There many a gleaming golden hoard

They shaped and wrought, and light they caught

To hide in gems on hilt of sword.

 

“On silver necklaces they strung

The flowering stars, on crowns they hung

The dragon-fire, in twisted wire

They meshed the light of moon and sun.

 

“Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away, ere break of day,

To claim our long-forgotten gold.

 

“Goblets they carved there for themselves

And harps of gold; where no man delves

There lay they long, and many a song

Was sung unheard by Men or Elves.

 

“The pines were roaring on the height,

The wind was moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light.

 

“The bells were ringing in the dale

And men looked up with faces pale;

The dragon's ire more fierce than fire

Laid low their towers and houses frail.

 

“The mountain smoked beneath the moon;

The Dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.

They fled their hall to dying fall

Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

 

“Far over the misty mountains grim

To dungeons deep and caverns dim

We must away, ere break of day,

To win our harps and gold from him!”

Bilbo let their song wash over him, heart breaking with them as the lamented sharing in the deep aching they felt when they dreamed of the once glorious halls of the kingdom under the mountain. He tasted salt on his lips, absentmindedly reaching for a handkerchief to wipe them away.

“I have three bedrooms, if you wish to stay the night,” he offered softly. Thorin did not turn away from the blazing fire, but Balin accepted on his behalf. “Then I’ll leave it to you to decide who bunks where. Good night.”

There was a chorus of, “Good night, Master Baggins,” behind him, and Bilbo left the Dwarves to themselves. Today had been just as difficult emotionally for them as it was for him.

Besides, he had a mountain of dishes to tackle, for they weren’t going to wash themselves.


	3. Complications Large and Small

Bilbo did not sleep night. How could he when his smial now housed thirteen of his dearest companions that he had not seen for nearly a century?

The time traveler had only had three days to come to terms with the miracle he had been given. While three days was not a long stretch of time, it was enough for Bilbo to prepare himself, mind and body, for the long and perilous adventure that lay ahead.

Or so he had thought. He realized that he hadn’t really come to terms with it all with, with them—Fíli, Kíli, Thorin, Ori, Óin, Balin—being alive again until he laid eyes on them, watching them partake in the first decent meal they had had in a long time, throwing about his mother’s century old china and simply being happy that a lifelong dream was about to become true.

His emotions had threatened to expose him, for he was hard pressed to keep his tears at bay. Seeing them again, young (except for Balin) and hearty and hale was more than Bilbo could have ever hoped for. After he had fled Erebor he had hidden himself away in his Hobbit-hole, never venturing further than the market, and had not seen his friends again before sailing for the Undying Lands.

Perhaps it was cowardly of him, but Bilbo had thought it best at the time. How could he stay in Erebor when it was his fault Durin’s line had ended? Had he convinced Thorin to see sense some other way, or reached him faster, or not been knocked out atop Raven’s Hill like the useless Hobbit that he was, Thorin, Kíli and Fíli’s final battle with their arch nemesis would have ended differently.

After the dishes were wiped clean, a quick task since Bombur ensured no morsel of food went uneaten, and tucked away in their respective cupboards, Bilbo had crept down the hallway, poking his head inside each of Bag End’s bedrooms. He knew from experience that neither his soft foot falls nor the opening of the door would be heard over the rumbling snores of Dwarves. If they could somehow bottle the sound, they could use it as a weapon to deafen their enemies.

He needed reassurance that this was not a fantasy or delusion. And if any happened to be awake still, he could claim he was being a proper host, and not creepily hovering because he feared they would vanish if he let them out of his sight.

The first gust bedroom held the Ri siblings and Balin. The soft bed was occupied by Nori and Ori, leaving Dori and the elderly advisor the plush, upholstered chairs. The arrangement was unsurprising to the Hobbit. Dori, he had quickly learned, was a mother hen on levels only matched by Thorin or Hobbit grandmothers. The eldest of the Ri brothers kept careful watch over his two siblings.

Dori was an eternal pessimist, always expecting the worse, or at least anticipating that the worst would somehow befall his brothers.  It had fallen on the gray haired Dwarf to protect and feed his siblings when the Dwarves established themselves in Ered Luin, stepping up to fill the shoes their parents had left behind. He clucked over Ori’s scraped knees and dealt fists to those that tried to tease Nori for being of a slimmer build than a normal Dwarf. Bilbo had laughed until he cried when he heard that tale, because anyone who tried to mess with Dori’s siblings was an idiot of the highest degree. Bilbo feared being hugged by the Dwarf, so great was his strength.

Dori disregarded his own injuries to see Ori and Nori cared for first, slipped them portions of his rations, though he loved food as much as Bombur and Bilbo, reprimanding the thief when he deliberately stole one of Dwalin’s knives just to antagonize the fearsome looking Dwarf.

Bilbo had thought them as different as Dwarves and Elves. Ori, while friendly when he opened up, was skittish and lacking confidence. The scribe had felt like he didn’t belong on their journey, believing the only reason he had been asked to keep record of their travels because Dori would not leave him behind. On the other hand, Nori hovered on the fringes of the Company. Aside from Bilbo in the beginning, the thief was the other person the Company avoided. Not in the same manner, of course.  The Dwarrow hadn’t gone out of their way to bring him into the fold because they didn’t trust him, and Bilbo hadn’t helped matters by constantly grumbling about how ill-suited gentlehobbits were for sleeping on cold, firm ground and eating a mere two meals a day (a trait which made the Dwarves barbarians in his eyes at first). It was more that Nori was keeping his distance, watching and protecting from the shadows.

He found Thorin and his nephews, along with Dwalin, in his second guest bedroom. Fíli and Kíli huddled close together on the bed, whereas the older pair of Dwarves had chosen to spread their bedrolls on the floor. Dwalin was positioned closer to the door, ax glaringly obvious beside him. His hand twitched unconsciously, drifting until his fingers brushed against the handle. The tattooed Dwarf took his responsibility to Thorin very seriously and was unflinching in his defense of the monarch, and by extension Fíli and Kíli.

Thorin’s dark head rolled over, and Bilbo hastily backed out. The Dwarf was particularly prone to feigning sleep while he brooded, and he desired not to enter a confrontation about why he was intruding on their sleep. No doubt Thorin would scold him for not resting himself, completely oblivious to his hypocrisy, tersely telling Bilbo that he would be a burden without a full night’s rest and that he would not slow down nor stop should he fall from his pony in exhaustion.

The last one, belonging to the Hobbit himself, held the final five members of the Company. Hobbits were self-admitted creatures of comfort. Tasty food, good pipeweed, and a love for parties so strong they made excuses to hold a celebration once a month, were all things they enjoyed. As such, Bilbo’s own bed was larger than the two that sat in his guest rooms, and Bombur, Bifur, and Bofur had crammed themselves in it, while Óin and Glóin sprawled in the corner.  

Bilbo closed the door softly, nodding his approval. Each room had two Dwarves that were excellent fighters should the need arise. The sleeping arrangements were always set up in such a way that an enemy would have to fight every Dwarf to reach the exiled king. With his guestrooms situated on the opposite side of the hall to his personal quarters, and Thorin and his sister-sons in the room in the corner, the Company was easily able to adjust so that the three royal Dwarves were protected.

He didn’t begrudge the Dwarrow their paranoia and lack of trust. They had just met him today, unlike him who had care about them for eighty years. Bilbo was an unknown; not one of them. A soft, fleshy Hobbit opposed to a strong, solid, dependable Dwarf. They would come to count Bilbo amongst their number with time, and some of his more reckless moments. They appreciated his unique style of bravery, no matter that they thought him mad for them.

At least, until he spirited away the Arkenstone.

* * *

Dawn broke early, bringing with it the tantalizing scent of frying meats.

After his first nightmare, horrifying images of the Company dying and Bilbo standing along in the center of their fallen bodies, blood that could have been theirs coating his sword, dripping from the point to paint his feet scarlet, Bilbo had decided he would get no sleep that night. So he uncurled his small form from his favorite reading chair and set about preparing breakfast to feed a hungry army of Dwarves.  He was hopeful that a second lavish meal would put the grim Dwarves, a mix of disappointed, furious, and worried that no more of their kin would join them, in a better mood.

In twos and threes they trickled in, looking well rested and refreshed. Kili visibly perked up at the sight of the food laden table, dragging his brother to a seat and piling enough food on his plate to rival Bombur.

Conversation flowed as they debated their next step and the best path to reach the mountain. Just because the rest of their race had claimed no interest in retaking Erebor did not mean that there were not those who did. Other Dwarves that would have the treasure for themselves or greedy men who would not care that the wealth belonged to the Dwarves. Bilbo was uncomfortably reminded of the greedy Master of Laketown. It was imperative that they reach the Lonely Mountain first.

Those whispers scared Bilbo. His heart clenched tightly in fear and his breath came in short, sharp breaths. Had the gold sickness always lurked deep in the Dwarrow’s minds? Growing stronger and feeding off doubts and seeing traitors in those they called shield-brothers until they were but a shell of themselves?

“Master Burglar, a moment, if you would be so kind.” Bilbo moved to join Balin, who had called for him, in the entryway of his smial, where he stood with Thorin and Glóin.

“How much do we owe you?” Thorin’s question was terse and gruff. Glóin’s hand hovered over the coin bag tied to his waist.

“O-owe?” Bilbo stammered, barely able to form the word, stunned as he was. None of the Dwarves, not even Balin who was easily the most diplomatic of them, had offered to compensate him for the pantry they had emptied to the last crumb originally. Was this sudden generosity because they learned he was not a willing participant; that Gandalf had promised them something he had not?

The Hobbit puffed his cheeks, which were rapidly becoming rosy colored. He didn’t know what had overcome these Dwarves, but he wasn’t going to stand for it. Paying a Hobbit for his hospitality. Bilbo had never been so insulted, and that was saying a lot because Thorin had spent the first third of their journey belittling him at every turn.

“You’ll pay me nothing, Master Oakenshield,” he said firmly, ignoring how the Dwarf’s face darkened. “You are my guests. I am more than happy to feed your Company and provide shelter for a night. I shall not accept a single copper coin.”

“We only seek to pay you for your services, Master Baggins,” the elderly Dwarf interjected.

Bilbo’s heart warmed at the words, pleased that the Dwarves weren’t treating him as a nuisance that needed to be watched constantly. But even if they hadn’t been his friends  and had arrived with him unawares again, Bilbo would have refused payment.

“It is a matter of pride amongst us Hobbits,” he explained, “to see guests welcomed and tended to. Why, the Proudfoots will be positively envious when they learn I’ve hosted thirteen Dwarves.”

Actually, they would be scandalized like the rest of the Shire, but Bilbo figured the embellishment would lend weight to his argument, even if the three Dwarves had no idea who the Proudfoots were.

“Besides,” he continued reasonably, not wanting to give them a chance to protest. Bilbo would swear on his prize winning tomatoes that the journey to the Lonely Mountain took as long as it did because the Dwarves spent as much time arguing as they did anything else. “I am accompanying you on your quest. The gold will be put to better use purchasing provisions, such as food. We will need plenty of that.”

Several weeks of the same rationed stew would try the Company’s tempers. They were fed up with the situation long before they reached Rivendell, never mind that they nearly starved in Mirkwood.

That period had been especially hard on the lonely Hobbit amongst a bunch of Dwarves. Bilbo was accustomed to seven meals a day. To suddenly be informed they would eat once before breaking down camp and once after they stopped for the day had been alarming. He had actually fainted when the matter was cleared up, which, in hindsight, had done nothing for his worth in their eyes.

Bilbo was not looking forward to the empty, growling stomach and constant hunger that would become commonplace before the month was out.

“Why do you do this, Mister Baggins?” Thorin question, eyes suddenly looking older. Bilbo was uncomfortably reminded that even after the fact the Dwarves had received little to no help from the other races of Middle Earth.

Bilbo sighed at the Dwarf’s ingrained suspicion raising its ugly head.  What reason could he give? His original excuse would not pass muster. It would make Thorin more wary of him, for he had no reason to be so emotionally connected to the cause. He could not open with missing the comforts of a home he had yet to leave, but saying that Gandalf always gets his way (because only a fool disagreed with one of the Istari) would only earn him scorn.

“Tell me, Thorin, what do you see when you look around?” he chose to ask instead of giving his answer outright.

Disgruntled, the monarch turned to look at his kin, who were once more throwing about Bilbo’s dishes. “Misbegotten Dwarves,” he said sourly. Glóin snorted into his beard.

Bilbo permitted a smile to form. “And what don’t you see?”

Thorin’s dark brow furrowed, not understanding what point the Hobbit was trying to make. How could he see what wasn’t there?

“Hobbits.” Thorin looked at his longtime friend and advisor like he had gone mad.

“A home is not the physical walls we live in. Home is the place where you are loved, where you are together with those that you love and that love you in return,” the brunet Hobbit explained. “My parents have joined Yavanna in her garden and both of their families see too much of the other in me.

“Right now, you don’t have a home. You have a place where you take refuge. But you deserve to have your home back, so I will do whatever it takes to see you crowned King Under the Mountain.”

And the Hobbit would. He was going to do everything is his power to make sure Durin’s line lived through the Battle of the Five Armies.

Heavy silence descended upon them in the wake of his determined promise. Glóin looked quite misty eyed and half turned away to hide it. Balin didn’t share the same compunction.

“Thank you, laddie,” Balin said hoarsely. Bilbo was unfazed when the exiled king remained silent. He was used to Thorin’s antics, and knew that his silence was acceptance.

Having convinced the Dwarrows to see his way, no matter how grudging on the king’s part, Bilbo bustled about, cramming every ounce of spare food into packs belonging to various Dwarves. “No point in letting it go to waste,” he told them when they asked why he was stuffing turnips and beets into every crevice.

And then he was being helped by Dori onto a pony (by helped Bilbo really meant lifted with ease) and Thorin’s Company was traveling the well-worn paths to the edges of Hobbiton, led by Bifur who had the best sense of direction above ground. Within the hour they had come out the other side of Farmer Maggot’s field.

With fuller pockets. Not even Dwarves were able to resist the allure to nab a couple of golden ears of corn.

“We’ll make Hobbits out of you yet,” he commented at the dark haired prince, who had already stripped the corn of its husk and was methodically eating a row of kernels, turning the ear up, and starting the next line.

The brothers looked back at him with manufactured innocence. “If all your food is this good, I’ll gladly be a Hobbit,” grinned Kíli, which was met with several eye rolls.

Bilbo eyed the rest of the Company from his place at the end of the line, looking for the Dwarf that would be his first victim, wanting to ease the Dwarves into friendship earlier. Not Ori, even though he shared similar interests with the young scribe, because Dori would jump down his throat if his criminal brother didn’t slit it in his sleep. He had no connection to Glóin since he had yet to raise Frodo, not that the red haired Dwarf needed any encouragement to talk about his family. The Hobbit had been close to Kíli and Fíli, but he didn’t want to start with Thorin’s nephews and have it look like he was using their status in the Company to integrate himself.

His thought process was interrupted when he sneezed explosively. Bilbo cursed horse hair and all the dander Myrtle let fly into his face every time she shook her mane. He dug into his breast pocket for a handkerchief, frowning when he came up empty-handed. The line of his mouth deepened as the rest of his pockets were suspiciously absent of the square of cloth he was searching for.

Bilbo groaned piteously, attracting the attention of Bofur, when he realized he had once again forgotten his handkerchief. He couldn’t remember to bring a simple hanky, yet he wanted to alter the fates of thirteen Dwarves?

The hatted Dwarf was kind enough to tear a strip of fabric from the bottom of his shirt, which Bilbo accepted reluctantly, suppressing a cringe. It was still extremely unhygienic.

The handkerchief incident wound up making Bilbo’s decision for him. He gently urged his pony forward so he was between Bofur and Bombur. “Thank you,” he said, because even if it was gross to wipe his nose with the dirty cloth, Bilbo possessed manners and wasn’t going to stop using them because they were trekking across the wilds of Middle Earth.

“Think nothing of it, boyo,” laughed Bofur, echoed by half of the column that was discretely (not anymore) eavesdropping on their newest member.

‘Boyo?’ Bilbo mouthed. The Dwarves had called him all manners of names, once upon a time, though they generally stuck to Baggins and Burglar. Boyo was new and unwelcomed. The Hobbit did not like to be labeled as though he was a tween.

“Aye, boyo. You can’t be more than seventy.”

What did his age have to do with anything? “For your information, I just celebrated my fiftieth birthday,” Bilbo huffed, falling back on his overly proper speech that he used when his companions annoyed him.

“Fi-fifty?!” Bofur choked over the number. “You can’t be serious, Mister Baggins!”

The Hobbit flushed as another dozen pairs of eyes stared at him incredulously. Only Fíli and Kíli looked delighted.

“I assure you I am,” Bilbo answered, not seeing why the Dwarves were practically beside themselves over his age. They had never cared enough to ask how old he was before. Besides, it was merely a number. Unless they thought he would not be able to handle himself on this quest because he was younger.

If that was the case, they need not worry. Of the fifteen people assembled, Bilbo knew best what was to come and was better prepared than all of them.

“That means you’re still a child!” Dori cried out.

“Maybe now Dori will lay off now that there’s someone younger than us. What do you think, brother?”

“Not a chance, Kíli,” the fair haired Dwarf answered. “He’ll be even worse now that there’s another dwarfling to protect,” he lamented.

“Dwarfling,” Bilbo repeated slowly, not quite believing what he was hearing. And he couldn’t blame it on the ears because Hobbits had sharp ears. “Hobbits come of age at thirty-three years,” he told them.

At this, the Company looked rather interested. “So young,” Dori clucked. “How could you Hobbits allow such a thing? Thirty-three is not old enough to lift a hammer.”

Bilbo blinked, bewildered, as several of the older Dwarves nodded their agreement and began loudly announcing their own opinions. Apparently, Óin was of half a mind to march the Hobbit back to Bag End, even if it left them without a burglar.

“Settle down, you fools,” Thorin commanded. “The burglar’s age matter’s not so long as he can fulfill his duty as contracted. The wizard would not have recommended him if he was not capable.”

Thorin’s interruption, wrong though it was for the monarch clearly did not know the wizard very well, dampened the interest of all but his own nephews, who fell back to ride alongside the Hobbit. Bilbo sighed mentally, allowing the two mischievous Dwarves to draw him into conversation about what Hobbits were like (where he made a point to state the Hobbits were growers and not fighters and therefore never need lift hammers taller than they were so the rest of the Company could hear). Thorin was just as prickly and overbearing as ever. He had hoped their discussion before they left Bag End would have warmed the king to him somewhat.

However, what with his constantly referring to Bilbo by burglar instead of name, Thorin seemed intent on reminding his kin that their burglar was not one of them, did not belong, and was only there because Gandalf suggested him for the position.

Bilbo shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position atop Myrtle. He knew he would be sore then they stopped riding, but he couldn’t wait until then. Not even a day into the journey and he needed a break from the Dwarves. Partly because of their pigheadedness, but mostly because he needed to center himself and remind himself that these weren’t the friends whose passing he had mourned.

* * *

The first two weeks of the journey were monotonous. The Company was up and moving at the first light of dawn, preparing for a long day on the road. Thanks to the Dwarves superior eyesight, they continued riding well after the sun fell.

Bilbo could handle that. While physically unused to the brutal and grueling place, the Hobbit was mentally prepared, and as such did not complain about the long hours. The soreness had already become a constant ache that he could ignore.

What he disliked was being unable to converse with his friends. It wasn’t because Thorin forbid them from talking or anything ridiculous, but Bilbo had to constantly monitor himself so that he wouldn’t speak of something that he had not learned yet. Given how taciturn the majority of his companions were, that was almost everything he knew about them.

It was exhausting and it made Bilbo, unfairly he recognized, rather cross. He blamed the Dwarves for not taking advantage of his questions and the hand he extended in friendship and letting him get to know them.

Thankfully, after learning that the Hobbit was younger then themselves, Kíli and Fíli had tried to frighten him with stories of nighttime attacks by Orcs, leading to Balin divulging the story of the Battle of Azanulbizar and how Thorin had proven himself to be a king worth following. Naturally, Bilbo used the little insight into Dwarvish history that he had gotten as an excuse to ask Ori for more stories.

Still, Bilbo was more than a little put out that the Dwarves weren’t jumping at the chance to share personal stories with him, and it showed in his attitude. In response, the Dwarves had grown short-tempered and answered with terse, curt replies that invited no further talk.

It wasn’t so much that the Dwarves were being stubbornly secretive that bothered him. They wouldn’t be Dwarves if they didn’t have a secret for every stone in their lauded mountain.

To Bilbo, it was about trust; or the lack of so far. How could he convince the Company to set aside their Dwarvish thinking at times if they didn’t trust him? What could he change if they refused to listen to his wisdom?

“Mister Baggins, would you be of service and take these over to the lads?” Bombur hefted two bowls of stew and tilted his head in the direction of Fíli and Kíli.

Distracted from his thinking, Bilbo agreed immediately, taken the wooden bowls from him and heading towards the ponies the sons of Dís were watching over.

Had the Hobbit not been so consumed by his thoughts, he would have realized that Bombur’s request preluded the appearance of the trolls.

He certainly remembered when a thick, gray hand as tall as he was closed about him and lifted him from the ground.

Bilbo’s squeaked in terror, because having done it once before did not mean he was not startled when he was trapped in a troll’s hand that could crush him with a simple squeeze. The clatter of the roughhewn dishes went unheard.

The troll, Tom his mind supplied unhelpfully, held him aloft. Peering at his captive blearily, he said, “What’s this? More mutton? I don’t like mutton.”

Bilbo didn’t have it in him to speak. To correct the troll or demand his release.

All he could think as Tom decided more mutton, which he was tired of, was better than none at all, was that it wasn’t supposed to go like this. The trolls were supposed to kidnap the ponies, not Bilbo.

How long would it be until the Dwarves realized he had been taken?

Based on the notorious bad luck Thorin’s Company had had during his first journey, Bilbo imagined he would be troll food first.

* * *

Tom the troll joined his brothers. Will and Bert were just as ugly and revolting smelling (it was a miracle none of them had noticed the smell of troll last time) and they ignored their third member as they argued until he shoved Bilbo in the space between their faces.

Why did remember the trolls’ names? Because they were more Mannish than trollish? What kind of respectable troll was named Tom? Or Will or Bert for that matter. It was hard to take them seriously when they had such normal names.

“Look what I caught sneaking ‘bout the woods,” he exclaimed, pleased with himself. “More mutton!”

“You idiot,” Bert whined in his high pitched voice, “that ain’t mutton. It’s a squirrel and they don’t taste good.”

“Better than mutton,” Will muttered, tilting his large head in the direction of their pot. Bilbo thought his eyes had to be playing tricks on him because Fíli’s blond hair was poking out above the ropes that tied him to the spit.

The Dwarf’s eyes widened when the troll manning the spit turned it around and he saw Bilbo’s predicament.

And what a predicament it was. Now the Hobbit needed a rescue plan as well as an escape plan. Though it was mildly fortunate that the trolls had also gotten their hands on Fíli because their attention would be split between them. 

“Kíli!” he shouted desperately.

Bilbo was so flummoxed that he automatically replied, “I’m Bilbo.”

“Kíli!” the crown prince shouted for his brother once more. An arrow sliced through the air, finding home in the meat fist that still clutched the Hobbit.

Of course, that’s when Bilbo understood. Fíli was calling out for his brother to do something. Not that Bilbo thought Tom would react to being shot. It would have been a miracle if that shot had caused the troll to release him.

For a moment, Bilbo cursed that it was Fíli who had been caught, for he had more knives on his person than Nori. Kíli’s arrows were useless against the thick troll hide as evidenced by Bert plucking the arrow from his brother’s hand and using it to clean between his teeth. Bilbo was fairly certain he saw the troll dislodge a bone. His nerves, which had been under control until that point, fled him and he felt nauseous.

Would nothing on this accursed adventure go right?

From the minute Balin had stepped through his door everything had gone downhill. One would think they would reach the Lonely Mountain with less trouble this time, with Bilbo’s forewarning. But the Valar were not going to make it easy for him. Perhaps this was a sign that he could only change how the story ended and not the path the Company took to get there.  

“There’s more of them. What are you waiting for?” Will demanded when neither of his brothers moved. “Don’t you want to fill your bellies tonight? Go find them.”

That was Bilbo’s cue. One thing had had learned was that, no matter who it was, every one they encountered stopped and stared whenever he spoke up. Even if it was just because they wanted to know why a Hobbit would abandon his senses and the rolling green hills of his home for a quest that was unlikely to succeed. More than once, his words had gotten them out of a tight spot.

Bilbo already knew he could distract the trolls. One word from him and they would forget about Kíli in the forest, and hopefully the stubborn boy would be smart enough to fetch help.

“Wait!” he shouted. “That’s a bad idea. You don’t want to do that.”

Like he expected, all three trolls forgot that Bert and Tom were just ordered to scour the trees for more Dwarves. Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder what they would have done with him, because they also seemed to forget that Tom still trapped him in his fist.

“Eh? And why’s that?”

“Have you seen the two of us?” Bilbo questioned. “We’re scrawny Dwarves. You’d find more meat on a squirrel. Really, you’re better off not wasting time tearing through the forest in search of Dwarves that aren’t worth eating.” With magnificent effort, he ignored Fíli’s affronted look at being called scrawny. Or maybe it was outraged that Bilbo was pretending to be a Dwarf.

 “You are really small. Hardly a mouthful,” said Bert, beady eyes jumping from the Hobbit in his brother’s hold to Fíli hanging on the underside of the spit, which was no longer turning. The Dwarf was turning red from the heat.

“Because he’s a Hobbit!” Fíli shouted. “Not a Dwarf! Can’t you tell by the lack of a beard?”

“Hobbit?” the trolls repeated. “What’s a Hobbit?” Will continued.

“Can you eat a Hobbit?”

“A burglar, actually,” Bilbo cheerfully corrected.

All three trolls’ faces pinched in confusion. “A hobaburger?” Never heard of it. Are you sure that’s what you are?”

Tome shoved Bert, who had asked that question with concern. “Idiot. He said he’s a burglahobbit. Clean your ears out.”

Bert promptly dug his pinkie into the shell of his ear and twisted it around. When he removed it there was a layer of greenish-white wax covering it. He then proceeded to flick both his wrist and finger to fling it off. It landed on the ground to his right wetly.

“Are there more of you burglahobbits ‘round here?” Will asked.

“No,” Bilbo answered honestly.

“Then we’ll need more Dwarves to eat if we’re not going to starve,” the head troll decided.

“Or,” Bilbo drew the word out until all three trolls focused solely on him, “I could tell you how to make a single Dwarf fill your stomach.”

Fíli cursed at him, thrashing in his bindings. Tom looked at him skeptically. “What would you know about eating Dwarves?”

“I had thirteen for dinner two weeks ago.”

It would be that moment that the rest of the Dwarves arrived in a cacophony of thundering feet and battle cries, ducking between the trolls’ legs and hacking with their swords and slamming hammers down on toes.

Tom howled, throwing Bilbo to the ground. He hardly registered the pain of his hand being sliced open by a sharp rock as he scrambled to get out from underfoot. His heart pounded. Any moment now a second troll hand would snatch him up and threaten to tear him apart to force the Dwarves to lay down their arms.

Will grabbed Bifur instead. He dangled from the troll’s hand, windmilling his arms to regain a semblance of balance since he was upside down.

Maybe it was a Dwarvish thing, but the Dwarf with an ax in his head didn’t look nearly as frightened as Bilbo had. Although, Bifur probably had a lot more confidence that the rest of the Company would let him be drawn and quartered.

“Put down your weapons or this one dies!”

Bifur yelled something in Khuzdûl, making Bilbo wished he had study up on the secret Dwarf language. It was horribly annoying to be the only person who wasn’t in the know.

“What’s he saying, Bert? I can’t understand him.”

“He’s diseased! You don’t want to eat him.” Bilbo didn’t have time to come up with an excuse that wouldn’t upset his companions.

Everyone in the clearing turned to look at Bilbo like he was mad.

“I’ll show you diseased when I get down from here!”

The Hobbit rolled his eyes at Fíli. He glanced towards the rock that Gandalf would break. For the one person who did as he pleased, the wizard had been the one constant thus far. Absentminded and cryptic and getting cross with Thorin for his stubbornness.  How long did he have until the sun rose? How much longer did he need to stall the trolls?

“In fact,” he continued grandly, knowing he was about to trample on the Dwarrow’s pride, “they all are. It’s why they’re so scrawny, like I was telling you earlier.”

“What about this one?” Bert poked Bombur. “This one’s quite fat. I’d bet he’s juicy.”

“No, no, no. Definitely not that one. He’s infected with worms.”

Bert leapt away from the cook, shrieking. In his haste to get away he tripped over his own two feet and went careening into the side of their soup pot. The contents spilled, dousing the fire and corroding part of the wooden structure that held Fíli above it. Did they eat acid?

The Hobbit could only watch on amazed, as the troll camp descended into chaos. The trolls were trying to get as far away as possible from the Dwarves they previously had every intention of eating, and the Dwarves were having none of it, having reclaimed their weapons and pressed their advantage.

While the Dwarves attacked the troll, Bilbo went about freeing Fíli. Half the work was done for him, since the trolls’ dinner had eroded part of the base upon which the spit rested. With a couple of hard shoves, the one side crumpled. The spit now sat on an angle. Bilbo could just reach the bottommost tiers of rope.

He hacked at them with a rough rock. It was several minutes before the fibers even started fraying. The Dwarves returned quickly and Dwalin took over, cutting the prince free in seconds.

“What happened to the trolls?” Bilbo asked as the burly Dwarf rubbed circles over Fíli’s arm, working circulation back in.

“Ran like thieves in the night,” growled Glóin. Nori returned the accountant’s dark look with one of his own, which was more intimidating in Bilbo’s opinion.

“No need to worry. They will not get very far.”

“Gandalf!” several voices cried out. Impeccable timing, Bilbo thought, reappearing at the end when there was nothing left to do.

“What did you do?” Ori asked curiously.

“Nothing,” the wizard answered simply. “The sun will be their doom.”

Having seen that his nephew was well and assured by Óin that he’d only be feeling weak until they got his blood flowing normally again, Thorin rounded on Bilbo. His fur cloak whipped in a wide arc behind him and Bilbo unconsciously took a step backwards.

“What do you think you were doing?”

Bilbo recoiled from the Dwarf king. He was only a head taller, but right now he loomed over the Hobbit, eyes dark with anger. The last time he had seen Thorin this angry the Dwarf almost threw him from the battlements.

“Plotting with trolls to kill us all!”

Bilbo was surprise how much it hurt to hear that. Thorin has said something similar the first time. But the Dwarves’ deaths were the last thing he wanted. That was the purpose of his second chance, to pervert the fate that awaited them.

“It was quite the opposite, Thorin,” Gandalf defended him. “If not for Bilbo’s quick thinking the trolls would have eaten you by now.”

“It is the burglar’s fault that we were in position to be eaten in the first place.”

“Tom kidnapped me!” Bilbo pointed out, redirecting Thorin’s furious gaze to him.

“You should have stayed in camp.”

“I was only bringing the boys dinner. It’s not like I knew there were trolls in the woods.” It was beside the point that he actually was aware of the trolls.

“You can’t blame Mister Boggins, uncle,” said Kíli. The dark haired Dwarf was kneeling at his brother’s side, working on a leg while Dwalin continued his ministrations on Fíli’s other arm. “They grabbed Fíli first. Well, they took the ponies first and we tried to rescue them, but they saw Fíli after he cut them loose.”

Thorin growled in the back of his throat, talking across the small distance that separated him from his sister-sons. “Jarghn!” he snarled at them. “Vummen vorum guut qorl ut. I would send you back to the Blue Mountains if it were not too late.”

“We just wanted to prove that we belong on this quest,” Kíli said softly to his uncle’s back.

The sight broke Bilbo’s heart. He had not known that Fíli and Kíli thought themselves unworthy of being part of the quest to take back their home. He had never questioned their right to be part of the Company. Thorin, the only family they had left aside from their mother, was heading a dangerous quest to win back Erebor from a dragon. It was only right that they, as his nephews and heirs, took part in the quest.

But maybe that was where their feelings of inadequacy stemmed from, thinking that it was their status and relation to Thorin that earned them spots in the Company and not their skills.  

Gandalf commented that the trolls needed to take refuge during the day, reasoning that there must be a cave nearby. He suggested they start looking in the direction the trolls had run.

Kíli helped his brother to his feet, slinging an arm over his shoulders. They trailed behind the rest of the Dwarves, moving slowly to accommodate Fíli’s still shaky limbs.

Bilbo repressed a sigh. Convincing Thorin to value the safety of the Dwarves over Erebor’s gold was going to be difficult, if he was willing to send his own nephews back to Ered Luin for one mistake.

Heart heavy, he moved to help the two princes. Fíli looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and shame. “I’m sorry for the things I shouted at you, Mister Baggins. They were undeserved and uncalled for.”

“I thought it was Mister Boggins,” he teased gently. Seeing as his joke did not cheer either Dwarf, he said, “It’s fine, Fíli. I said some pretty horrible things too. You didn’t know I didn’t mean them. So let’s forget about it, okay?”

Fíli looked ready to argue, but something in Bilbo’s face must have stopped him. “Thorin will never,” he muttered.

“Don’t be too hard on him, boys. He loves you.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Kíli hissed, “telling us we’d be responsible for the Company’s deaths.”

So that was what he had said. “I know it seems harsh, but Thorin is worried about your safety. He wants to protect you. Today he realized that he can’t shield you from all danger. It makes him scared, because there’s a high chance that we’ll all die on this quest.”

The chance was as high as Thorin forgiving Thranduil for turning his back on the Dwarves in their time of need, because Bilbo was not going to let it happen. The task would be much easier with Sting in his hand, so it was a good thing they were going to collect it.

Fíli’s smile was brittle. “I wish I could believe you, Mister Baggins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Jarghn = idiots  
> Vummen vorum guut qorl ut = You would have killed us


	4. Author's Note

Obviously this is not a chapter.

I have a roommate who was having computer issues. I lent her my flash drive, where I saved all my unfinished story chapters, plot bunnies, research, everything on. I was thinking, since I’ve seen author’s notes all the time who have lost all their work and had to start over. I thought, by saving it on a flash drive, that that would never happen to me. I literally only saved word documents and pictures. But then I lend my roommate my flash drive and the stupid bitch of a tech she called to helps formats my flash drive, despite being told not to because a warning message said I’d lose all my files. And then I spent four hours trying to contact anybody in Microsoft with brains, only to be told they don’t have the technical skills required to recover my files and that and I quote “to be honest, once you have formatted your files on your flash drive there is no way to recover it manually.”

News flash assholes, I didn’t. One of your agents screwed up and you’re not doing a damn thing to fix it.

So despite my best efforts to never be in this situation, I find myself here none the less, having to rebrainstorm, replot, and basically rewrite 11 currently in progress stories and one that I had start and wasn’t ready to post yet.

This is really frustrating, because I honestly just found the time and motivation to sit down and write again after everything that happened with my dad, and now I have to start over.

So, if you don’t hear from me for a while, it’s because I have to start from scratch. Because I can’t afford to pay Best Buy $250 to ship my flash drive out for recovery for several weeks with no guarantee that they can recover my files.

I feel horrible. I had a good cry fest over it. But my hands are tied. I found a local computer repair store will to give it a try for $100, which is better but still pretty steep at the moment. And honestly, if it came down to that, I’d rather start over again and not spend so much money.

I just . . . bear with me please. If any of you write or know someone that does, tell them to back up their files. This is the most soul crushing feeling.


End file.
